


Abattoir Blues

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer finds Sam in a compromising position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abattoir Blues

He's just starting to think that he might be able to make it through this one when he hears the motel door open.

"Dean?" he calls, stomach jumping. "Cas?" He knows it's not them, that something's wrong, instinctively, but he calls again anyway. It's starting to dawn on him that handcuffing himself to the sink might not have been the best idea, not with demons and horsemen running around. He tugs futilely at the cuffs as he hears the wardrobe slide away from the door.

It's not Dean. It's not even demons.

It's worse.

Sam sucks in a breath as Lucifer steps gingerly into the room, eyeing a suspicious stain on the bathroom tile. His vessel's looking worse, patches of raw skin showing through. There's something oddly sad about it, in a way that makes Sam want to reach for the first-aid kit and carefully fix him up.

"Sam," Lucifer says, looking down at him, a half-smile playing at his lips. "It's been a while. You're looking well."

It's a joke. The devil is making a joke. He supposes he's probably not in the best mood to appreciate it.

"I have to say," he continues, "I like you like this. Restraints are a good look for you."

"You're a goddamn comedian," Sam spits. "What do you want?"

Lucifer tips his head back, hand on his face, like he's considering the question. "Just wanted to see how you were getting on, I suppose."

"So this is you," Sam says. "Famine, the demons. This is your doing."

Lucifer shakes his head. "I'm just an observer, Sam. I may have raised Famine, but I'm not giving him marching orders. I'm just here to enjoy the show."

Sam opens his mouth, to say something cutting, perhaps, but a tremor wracks his body, and he leans back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, shuddering. 

Lucifer squats down beside him, caressing his face with one hand. "My poor Sammy," he murmurs. "Not holding up so well, are you?"

"Don't touch me," Sam snaps, trying for defiance, but getting something closer to a sigh. Lucifer ignores him, stroking a hand through his hair, and the touch—feels good. It's soothing against his sweaty forehead, and he closes his eyes in spite of himself.

"Why are you fighting this?" Lucifer asks him softly. "This is a part of who you are, Sam. This is who you're meant to be."

"No," Sam says, breath coming shallowly. "It doesn't have to be. I can fight this."

Lucifer chuckles, low and rough. "You can try, Sam, but you can't fight your own nature. Not forever. Eventually, you'll give in to me." He traces his hand along Sam's wrists, fingering the handcuffs. Sam shivers. "How long do you think you can keep yourself locked up like this?"

It isn't fair, he thinks, for the devil to be so soft, so sympathetic. Sam doesn't want his pity. He doesn't want what comes attached to it.

A hand curls around the back of his neck, pulling him forward so Lucifer can press cool, dry lips to his forehead. He doesn't try to fight it, just lets his head drop forward onto Lucifer's chest. Sam can feel his smile, knows he should be ashamed of this weakness, but right now he's having a hard time fighting how soothing Lucifer's skin feels against his feverish body. Steady fingers unbutton his shirt, and he _knows_ , somewhere, that this is a violation, that he should be fighting Lucifer off, but his touch feels _so good_ , and he can't stop himself from relaxing into it.

Lucifer's questing fingers explore his body, tracing over each of his scars, slipping down the curve of his back. He presses too hard on a bruise from where a ghost had thrown him into a desk the previous week, and Sam hisses, pulling at the handcuffs locking him to the sink. 

"You're so fragile," he murmurs. "You're breakable." His fingers count each of Sam's ribs. "Wait until we're together. I won't let you break, then." He kisses Sam, and he thinks it may have been a while since Lucifer's kissed anyone. It's rough and hard, an assertion of dominance, until he presses back, slipping his tongue into Lucifer's mouth, skewing it into something softer.

His hands stray lower, along the curve of Sam's waist, and he can't help gasping into Lucifer's mouth. He tugs at Sam's hips, twisting until Sam's practically sitting in his lap. Deft fingers unbutton his jeans, sliding them down his hips. "This is what you want," Lucifer is saying, whispering it into his ear, "this is what you've always wanted, always craved. Every relationship you had—there was always something missing, wasn't there? Some fragment of yourself you could never seem to find. You're my other half, Sam. You were made for me, and I for you." His touch is too light, stroking Sam through his underwear, and he whimpers, tugging at the handcuffs, trying to get more. Lucifer's hand settles on his wrists, stilling them. "Don't pull, you'll hurt yourself."

"Unlock me, then," Sam pants, because the shakes are starting to come back, and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up.

Lucifer smiles, resuming his petting, and Sam sighs under the attention. "You're the one who tied yourself up in here. Far be it from me to second-guess your choices." He's still barely caressing Sam's erection, and he shivers, hips jerking forward.

"Please," he whimpers, hating himself for how needy he sounds.

Lucifer gives him what he wants, his strokes faster now, rougher. "Come on, Sam," he murmurs. "You won't say yes to me here. But you want this." He presses small kisses to his throat, and Sam groans, trembling. "Beg me, Sam."

"Please," Sam says again, whispering it into Lucifer's neck, "please, please, please." His breath is coming in gasps, he can't get enough air in. "Lucifer—I can't, I need—please, _please_ —"

He comes with a choked-off sob, spilling across Lucifer's hand, adding flecks of come to the blood and dirt staining his shirt. Lucifer eyes the mess with detached interest, leaning Sam back against the wall and standing to wash his hand off in the sink. 

Sam feels the loss of Lucifer's contact like a sharp pain, and he shudders. Lucifer turns the tap off, kneeling down next to him. "It's going to be okay, Sam," he murmurs, pulling him in and resting his chin on the top of Sam's head.

"I wish I could believe you," Sam says, voice muffled by Lucifer's shirt.

"You will, in time," he says, quietly confident. He moves to stand up, and Sam wonders what he'd do if he just clutched onto his shirt and refused to let go.

"Are you just going to leave me like this?" he complains, and Lucifer looks down at him, taking in his disheveled state.

He smirks. "I'm contemplating it."

Sam flushes. "Well, stop contemplating."

"Now you're just being ungrateful."

Sam glares at him, and he stoops down to button his shirt back up and tuck him back into his jeans. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

He watches him leave. The shakes are on their way back, he knows, and he can feel the edges of hunger eating away at him, but—he thinks he's going to make it through this one.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so apparently on days when i don't have any class in the afternoon i just come home and write fanfic  
> ok


End file.
